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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972275">aftermath</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Love_Me_Dead/pseuds/Love_Me_Dead'>Love_Me_Dead</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>malcolm bright being a good brother, post 1x20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:54:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,722</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972275</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Love_Me_Dead/pseuds/Love_Me_Dead</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Coming to terms with the fact that she killed a man is harder than Ainsley thought.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>aftermath</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I am so absolutely intrigued by Ainsley's character development leading up to 1x20 and I decided to explore the aftermath of the finale! brief warning for mentions of blood and violence, but it's generally just stuff we all saw in the finale.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The trial took almost six months to conclude. From the first night when Detective Powell put her in handcuffs and read her the Miranda Rights to the very last day of the trial took six months. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley nearly threw up when the jury delivered their verdict: not guilty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her defense lawyers were the best out there. They uncovered all the dirt that would have put Nicholas Endicott behind bars and they found evidence that he had been trying to destroy the Whitly family. Sophie Sanders even testified.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley used a defense of temporary insanity. The psychologists from the prosecution were relentless. She could not remember the night. All she remembered was Endicott touching her, texting her brother, and then coming to with his body on the floor and a knife in her hands and blood everywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My girl</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d been confined to the manor during the trial. Their living room had been photographed to oblivion. Edrisa Tanaka, the one who liked Malcolm, had taken Endicott’s body away. Crime scene clean up came in afterwards and cleaned everything and left the house smelling of bleach for weeks. Mom burned a thousand scented candles to get rid of the smell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mom had forbidden her from watching the news. Ainsley just wanted to see how they were portraying her, who was telling her story. So she kept a diary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the trial concluded and Ainsley was Not Guilty and she could return to being a free member of society. In a way, it was vigilantism. No one wanted Endicott’s crimes to continue and his whole operation collapsed without him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm testified for her as well. His hands shook worse than ever. He had to be cleared to testify by the fleet of psychologists, but he was the only person still alive who clearly remembered that night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Ainsley was free. But ADN had “let her go” for the sake of their image. No good having a killer in front of the camera. Even if she was acquitted. She could survive on her mother’s money for the rest of her life if she needed, but she wanted something to do, to pass the time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm suggested she go back to school and get a degree in something useless and interesting. “Why not study Russian literature?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley woke in her apartment with a start. A quick glance at her hands told her that they were not bloody. She took a deep breath and buried her face in her hands. She had no idea how Malcolm had dealt with this for all these years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She picked up her phone to make a note of the nightmare so she could talk about it in therapy tomorrow. She had three voicemails and three missed calls from Claremont Psychiatric. She dropped her phone as though it had burnt her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin Whitly had testified against Endicott as well and discussed the multiple threats he made against his family. He was likely half the reason that Ainsley had been acquitted, with his charm and his accusations. He had been moved back to Claremont, back to all his privileges, ever since the trial. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She deleted the voicemails without listening to them. He just wanted her to come visit, talk about murder, as though she were just like him. She wasn’t. Twenty-six years she had convinced herself of that and she would not stop now. The only thing she got from her father was life and that was it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet, if she saw him, spoke to him, she could make sure that she wasn’t like him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley got out of bed. Her only plans for the day were vague and blurry: drink coffee, go through her diaries, try not to vibrate out of her skin. A visit to Claremont would not put a damper on anything she planned to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She fixed her hair. She applied her makeup. She got dressed. She could get coffee later when she was calmer, when this wasn’t a terrible idea and being alert wouldn’t make her rethink her life choices.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She drove to Claremont on autopilot. It was incredible that she didn’t get into an accident. She did not care if Mother had tracked her phone, if she would return home to find her ready to lecture her. It didn’t matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr. David raised his eyebrows as he collected her phone and passed her through the metal detector. Ainsley was used to it. Even Detective Powell gave her looks like that sometimes. Like they didn’t recognize her or they were worried that she would snap and kill someone again, right in front of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley tried to follow Malcolm’s lead in addressing her father. “Dr. Whitly,” she said. She tried to keep her chin high and her hands from shaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ainsley, my girl!” He said jovially. “I am so glad you got out of those murder charges.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wanted to assert dominance and stare him down, but she couldn’t. She glanced down at her shoes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would hug you, but…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley took a seat in the folding chair by his desk. She didn’t trust her legs. Part of her wondered how they could allow a folding chair into this room, where it could so easily be used as a weapon. Fold it up and bash in someone’s skull.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ainsley, you have no idea how proud I am,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shook her head. “I’m not like you,” she said. She couldn’t look at him as he settled into his chair, his cuffed hands in his lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, come on,” Martin said, leaning forward. “I saw some of those photos on the news. Brutal stuff. Beautiful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley clenched her jaw. She dug her nails into her palm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know exactly what you’re going through, Ainsley,” Martin whispered, like he was telling a secret.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes darted to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re scared.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glanced down at her lap, at her clenched fist, before she looked back at him and met his gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re scared that you’re going to lose it all,” Martin said. “But you know that’s not true. You were acquitted. The legal trouble is over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I lost my job,” Ainsley admitted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you’re worried about losing control. You’re scared of yourself. You saw what you did. You know what you’re capable of. How many times did you stab him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pressed her lips together. Seven.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re scared that you want to do it again,” Dad said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going through a lot right now,” Ainsley said. Her voice shook. It gave her away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a shame you don’t remember that night. My favourite part was always watching the light leave their eyes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She swallowed hard. Nausea rolled over her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop it,” she whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ainsley,” Dad said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stood up. There were a thousand things to be afraid of and Dr. Whitly was one of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have to go,” she said, wrapping her coat tighter around herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin grinned. “Ainsley.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knocked on the door twice. Mr. David began fumbling with his keys. She glanced back at Martin, trapped behind the red line, standing at the very edge. His tether was taut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opened and she rushed out. She barely remembered to collect her phone on the way out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley rushed to the bathroom when she returned home, barely taking time to lock the door. She collapsed onto the tile and gagged into the porcelain, pulling her hair back away from her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snapshots floated to the surface. Malcolm’s face, his mouth agape, as he watched Ainsley. He was terrified. Nicholas Endicott, gurgling on the blood in his airway. His hands, useless, came up and touched his neck, his chest, before they went limp. Blood everywhere. On her. Cold and hot at the same time. Wet. Iron.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What just happened</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was dissociation caused by the trauma of what she had just been through. Ainsley was lucky she was white and rich - that was the real reason she’d been acquitted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shivered against the tile. She was sweating, too, her blouse sticking to her back and her chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley Whitly was nothing like her father. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she wanted to remember. To know if she had gotten any pleasure from slitting someone’s throat, stabbing them. Of course she was glad that Nicholas Endicott was dead. He would never be able to ruin another life. But it was not the fact of his death - it was that he’d been killed. And Ainsley had killed him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A weapon of opportunity. That meant his murder wasn’t premeditated. She hadn’t thought it out, planned every second and let an unsuspecting fly wander into her trap like her father had, but she had killed him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The weight of the knife in her hand. Cool silver against her skin. She’d been told to wear silver all her life - blondes can’t get away with gold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley fought to her feet and stumbled out of the bathroom. She was just panicking, that was all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had she always been capable of killing? Or was it something more recent? Was it the way Endicott’s hand trailed down her back, or was it something in her blood?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley collapsed onto her couch, wrapped a blanket around herself. It didn’t matter, at this point. Endicott was dead and she had killed him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Could it happen again, though? The next person to grab her when she’s out at the bar or on a crowded train, would she slit their throat? Could she be trusted with the knives in her kitchen? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shook underneath the blanket and wrapped it tighter around herself. She peered out at the skyline - a few times she had craned her neck to look down at the sidewalk below and watch people pass. All of them had unique lives. Jobs and loved ones and hobbies and favourite pairs of jeans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley flinched when someone knocked on the door. She nestled deeper into the blanket as she wondered whether she could kill the person on the other side. It could be anyone: Mom or her friends from college or someone from the network bringing her flowers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ainsley?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm. Ainsley’s shoulders drooped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the memories flooded in. Malcolm, horrified, staring at the body between them on the floor. So much blood. The smell overwhelmed her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Malcolm said softly. He dropped something on the counter - food. How ironic. He sat next to her on the couch. “Do you want to talk about it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opened his arms, an invitation, and Ainsley leaned against him. She brought her knees to her chest. Malcolm smelled like clean laundry and coffee and his sage-scented shampoo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ran a hand over her head, down over her ear until he reached her shoulder. He squeezed gently, just the way he had when she was five and she missed her dad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I killed him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was never any question about that. No police investigation had to take place to figure out “who dunnit”. But somehow, saying it out loud felt like admitting it, confessing to a crime. Asking for forgiveness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did,” Malcolm said carefully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley turned to him, meeting his eyes. “Could it happen again?” She whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he said. “I won’t let something like that happen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shifted, looked away. “I killed him,” she said again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knew what he meant: should he call an ambulance? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley swallowed around the lump in her throat. “What if I didn’t do it because he was threatening us?” She whispered. “What if I liked it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm shifted this time, imperceptibly away from her. It broke her heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ains… What are you talking about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley glared down at the carpet. A red wine stain. Châteauneuf-du-Pape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw dad,” she whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm relaxed and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. She knew how hard it was for him to initiate physical contact. He was the one with a laundry list of disorders, who had been in therapy for twenty years and wasn’t getting better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t,” he said. “What did he say to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley balled her hands into fists. Relaxed. Stretched her fingers out as far as they could go, tensed until her fingers shook, and then balled them into fists again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm sighed. “So now you think it’s in your blood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley blinked. She glared over at her bed. She wondered if she would need restraints. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ainsley, look at me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She ignored him. There were pills on her countertop. Today’s meds included her regular antidepressant and her birth control with a few new ones thrown in the mix. Anxiolytics and mood stabilizers and benzos. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ainsley</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked at Malcolm. His eyes were the same shade of blue as Dad’s. Martin’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Serial killers are made, not born,” he said. “And you have been through so much, but you’re not a killer like him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley clenched her jaw. Tears threatened at her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re made of tougher stuff,” Malcolm said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley blinked and looked down again. Malcolm wore jeans - dark blue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But… what if it happens again?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then we’ll explore other options to take care of you,” Malcolm said easily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if it’s who I am? What if I’m just a killer and that’s who I was born to be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the heart of it all: </span>
  <em>
    <span>what if I’m a bad person?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm sighed. He stood and walked to the kitchen while Ainsley shut her eyes. Hot tears slipped down her cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm returned with an ativan and a cup of tea. She dutifully placed the pill under her tongue. It was bitter. He sat next to her and rubbed her back slowly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hadn’t been that long since he had lost Eve and been accused of murder. He was still grieving and here he was, with Ainsley, telling her that it would be okay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She clutched the tea in her hands and leaned into his touch. She could almost believe, like when she was five years old, that everything would be okay. The mug was hot and Malcolm never added enough sugar but it was something warm to hold onto.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know how I know you’re a good person?” Malcolm said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley looked at him, her eyes narrowed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you’re worried that you aren’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shook her head. Malcolm leaned forward, plucked a few tissues out of the box on her coffee table, and daubed gently at her cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You remember that interview you did with Dad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sniffled and half-sobbed. She missed her job. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, I’d take it with a grain of salt since it came from a serial killer, but he talked about legacy,” Malcolm said. “About how he saved more lives than he took and therefore, his mark on the world was net-positive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley sipped her tea. Orange pekoe. Not enough sugar and too much milk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what Endicott did,” Malcolm said. “And you know what he was capable of. You know that the legal system would have acquitted him because of his money and he would be right back to being a monster. It’s better that he’s gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I killed him,” Ainsley whispered. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>My</span>
  </em>
  <span> world isn’t better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm relented and sighed. “Ains, I have no idea what you’re going through.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glanced at him. “You never killed anyone when you were in the FBI?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They used to tease me for never pulling the trigger,” Malcolm said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley leaned into him and took another sip of her tea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, I don’t know how to make you feel better,” Malcolm said. “But I’m willing to stay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shut her eyes. Malcolm wrapped his arm around her again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you need. I’m here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsley let her breath out with a quiet whine. Her chest was tight from holding back her tears. She buried her face in Malcolm’s shoulder and coughed out a sob. He brushed at her hair as she cried against him. He didn’t shush her or tell her that everything was going to be okay - he just held her until her sobs turned into hiccups and she had thoroughly stained his sweater.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to get through this,” Malcolm said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wasn’t certain. She had so much free time on her hands and nothing to spend it on except fretting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she had Malcolm. And he never lied to her. She would do her best to believe him.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>please leave a comment, kudos, or come chat on <a href="https://bibright.tumblr.com">my tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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